‘That,’ he said stonily, ‘is yet another point over which we fell out. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. He was snoring stupidly. He was a just man, and he did not care to start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane.
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